


The Seeker & The Case of the Troubled Trevelyan

by vehlr



Series: AU: The Seeker [1]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-01
Updated: 2015-08-13
Packaged: 2018-04-12 10:08:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 13,182
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4475375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vehlr/pseuds/vehlr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You have a problem that nobody else can help with? You hire the Seeker, and pray your cause is just.</p>
<p>Cullen Rutherford brings a missing persons case of alarming intent; more questions are found than answers; and the case takes a personal turn that turns the world of the Seeker and her trusted companion upside down.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Intro - They Call Her The Seeker

**Author's Note:**

  * For [janiejanine](https://archiveofourown.org/users/janiejanine/gifts), [Satine86](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Satine86/gifts).



Kirkwall is a city of two halves – it always had been, but the differences are more visible now. Whilst there had been great strides of recovery in Hightown and the trading districts, Lowtown still looked like a bomb site. If you knew where to look, you could still find scraps of life – like at the Old Hanged Man Inn.

Cullen Rutherford stares up at the sign. Once upon a time, it had been a haven for the locals, a good place for information if you had the money for it – and the stomach to handle the terrible ale, of course. He had known good people here, before the explosion. Before the city had become a warzone. He shivers, despite the balmy autumn weather, and pushes the door open.

The inn is practically dead – a drunkard in the corner and a single barmaid cleaning glasses. But she takes one look at Cullen and jerks her head to the closed door on the other side of the room. The door bears a small neat sign – _V. Tethras – Enquire Within_. He knocks lightly, pressing an ear to the wood. The sounds of life encourage him in, and he pushes the door open.

The office is a mess – to one side, a makeshift medical kit lies open, bandages strewn across the floor, and to the other lies stacks upon stacks of book and papers. But at the back of the room, the desk is the real centrepiece, mostly clear but for the feet of the man sat behind it.

“Yes, I understand that. Yeah. Yeah, I _get_ that, but -”

He holds a finger up to Cullen, a tight smile as he returns his attention back to the phone call.

“Yep. Yeah. Okay. Alright. Twenty sovereigns is fine, just make sure it's – yeah. Alright. Thanks.”

Placing the phone back in its cradle, he leans back in his seat once more, grinning broadly.

“Cullen Stanton Rutherford, as I live and breathe.”

“Varric.”

“Grab a seat, Curly, you're making the place look untidy.” He gestures to the chair on the other side of the desk, and Cullen lowers himself gingerly onto the floral cushion.

“Ah, how have you been keeping?”

He smirks. “Ah, come on. You're not here for small talk. You want the Seeker.”

Cullen swallows. “Get this a lot, I suppose.”

“More than I'd like.” He hauls his feet off the desk, leaning over with a serious look in his eyes. “I'll give you the benefit of the doubt, seeing as you were kind enough to save my ass in the fires. You want her to help you, and you're running out of time.”

“You always know -”

“Lucky guess. Tell me what you need.”

“My... friend.”

Varric cocks an eyebrow. “ _Friend_.”

“I had hoped to... well, it does not matter right now. She was taken from her home, and the city guard are already stretched to their limit to investigate a missing persons report.”

“And there were no signs of a break-in?”

Cullen's eyes narrow. “How did -”

“I know Captain Vallen, and I _know_ what she would investigate.” He rubs the back of his neck, letting out a sigh. “Any ideas so far?”

“She's well connected in Ostwick. Myra Trevelyan. My first thought was that her family might be involved, but...”

Varric's eyes move to a point past Cullen's shoulders, his back straightening as he beckons. Cullen turns to find a woman, tall and muscular with careful eyes already trained on him as she breezes past him. A towel around her neck, she offers the dwarf a small smile.

“Have you moved from here at all since last night, Varric?”

He grins as she perches on the edge of his desk, leaning back to look up at her. Cullen almost feels like he is intruding on something personal.

“Yes, mother,” he drawls. “Not all of us are married to our jobs. Sleep well?”

“Well enough. Did you -”

“You owe me ten sovereigns,” he interrupts, “but I got it. I'll pick it up tomorrow, alright?”

“Thank you.” She glances at Cullen, smile fading. “Client?”

“This is Cullen, he's an old... associate of mine, from before the fires.” Varric nods to the man. “Curly... say hello to the Seeker.”


	2. One: The Missing Myra

The reappearance of Cullen Rutherford was certainly a turn-up for the books, Varric had to admit. He had not seen the man since that fateful day two years ago when the city had been torn asunder by the desperate actions of one man – he supposed he owed Curly a debt for saving his life, but Varric tended to assume that introducing people to the Seeker balanced his ledgers quite nicely.

The Seeker... now, _there_ was a story. As she offers her hand to Cullen, he smiles slightly. She was a mystery to everyone – even to him, in some ways. Despite their affiliation, he did not think she trusted him fully, not yet. His talents for reading people were rarely turned on her – he owed her that much, at least. But it was hard not to see the determination in her frame when a new case came up, or the relief in her eyes when they could put one to bed. She lived for resolution, for leaving the world better than she had found it. And given her past, he could hardly blame her.

She had once been part of an elite operation – they had been called the Hands of the Divine. Nobody knew the whole story, and she was not about to tell it, but the rumours suggested that they worked around the law, and that something had gone wrong. Now, officially at least, she did not exist. But unofficially?

“Miss Seeker -”

She makes a noise in the back of her throat, rolling her eyes. “Varric, what is my name today?”

He chuckles. “I think we're up to Filomena.”

“Ugh.”

“How about Portia again? Allegra?” He teases her, the smile on her lips small as she shoots him a glare, and he is glad of it. Her real name was a gift, imparted only to a most select few, but she had plenty of spares for nervous clients to use. The personal touch, he had said.

“Or I could... just call you Seeker?” offers Cullen.

She turns back to him, looking abashed. “My apologies. Secrecy is paramount in my line of work, you understand. Call me whatever you wish.” She settles back against the desk, regarding him with a piercing look. Varric loved that look – well, he loved not being on the receiving end of it. Cullen shifts in his seat.

“So, ah... what do you need to know?” he asks.

Varric grabs a pen. “Name, address, known associates, the usual sort of information that could give us a lead.”

“Was she well, the last time you saw her?” asks the Seeker.

“Were there any suspicious people hanging around?” he adds.

“How long has she been missing?”

Cullen holds his hands up in surrender. “Alright, alright, I get the picture.” He rakes a hand through his hair. “Her name is Myra Adara Trevelyan, twenty-eight years old. Red hair, about so tall? She was staying at the Chantry refuge, she came over from Ostwick to help train the new initiates. Apart from me, I don't know who else she knows – she's kept reasonably busy. I saw her two days ago, at the refuge, and nobody has seen her since.”

Varric scrawls a few notes in shorthand, ripping the page off the pad and handing it to the Seeker. “Enough to make a few inquiries, I guess. Boots are under the stairs, I got 'em cleaned up.”

She murmurs thanks as she slips through the other doorway, and Cullen stands as Varric rises from his chair.

“What now?”

“Now, she does what she does best. Finding the truth. Go home and get some sleep, Curly, you look like shit.”

“I'm _fine_ -” Cullen starts, but one short laugh from Varric stops him.

“Go. Seriously, your girlfriend would want you to, right?”

The blush on the man's face is a picture. “She's not... right... I, ah – thank you, Tethras. This means -”

“Yeah, yeah, means a lot. You don't owe me shit, alright? We're all square.” He smiles broadly up at the man, one hand on his arm as he steers him towards the door. “We'll find her, don't worry. Just go on home and I'll let you know the minute we find anything.”

“Anything at all.”

“Anything,” he confirms, opening the door for him. “Take care of yourself, alright?”

With a fleeting smile, Cullen nods, stepping back out into the inn. Varric watches for a moment before closing the door, resting against the wood for a long breath. The reappearance of Cullen had brought memories, not all of them good.

A soft hand rests on his shoulder. “Are you alright?”

He smiles slightly, righting himself and turning to look up at the Seeker's concerned expression. “Yeah. Hell of a thing, him turning up out of the blue.”

“These are uneasy times,” she murmurs, “if our recent cases are anything to go by.”

He nods, before patting her hand. “It'll pass. Storms always do around here.” Padding over to the desk, he opens one of the drawers. “Ready to head out?”

“Always.” She shrugs on a dark leather jacket, and Varric reaches for the standard items, reeling them off as he hands them to her.

“Gun.”

She holds it with a look of distaste for a moment. “I cannot wait until mine is dry. This thing is horrendous.”

“Yeah, well, it's all you have right now. Dictaphone.”

“It still works?” She raises an eyebrow.

“Surprisingly, yes. I managed to get most of the algae out of it. Phone.”

“Give me the coins instead,” she insists.

He rolls his eyes. “You're not going to get radiation poisoning from it.”

“No, but it _is_ bigger than the gun and this jacket is fitted.”

He acquiesces, handing her a roll of coppers. “Alright. Call me when you find something, or in twelve hours.”

“I _do_ know the drill,” she drawls.

“I know, but if I repeat it I can drag you up on it when you purposefully ignore me,” he deadpans, before looking her in the eyes. “Stay safe, stay low. Shit goes down, you get out.”

“I will be fine,” she insists, squeezing his arm.

“Yeah, yeah.” He knew she would be, knew she was more capable than him in the field, but still a small fear gnawed at him every time she left to take care of business. He forces a smile. “Go get 'em, Seeker.”


	3. Two: Bullet For Your Thoughts

The streets of Kirkwall are grim, whatever the weather – Cassandra supposes it just part and parcel of the recovery, but her shoulders hunch a little as she passes through the old market square. The world is harsher these days, and not just in the city that started it all. After all, the effects of the explosion had been felt across the world. She had lost nearly everything because of it. Her team, her handlers, her boss, her greatest friend, the only woman she might have called family…

_But not Varric_ , she muses. 

He had watched his associates – _friends_ , she could hear him insist in that aggravated tone he has used on their first meeting, _they’re my friends_ – grow apart and fracture in the wake of the events that had torn the city in two. The culprit had been a part of that tenuous family. She had never asked him about Anders. She did not want to know if he had seen the intent in his body language, if he could have -

No. She would _never_ ask him that. He punished himself enough already.

Somehow, despite their differences, they had struck up an accord. She was disciplined, independent, unable to trust anyone these days. He was haphazard at best, _reckless_ at worst, extremely social, more than willing to help anyone who needed it… it was admirable, if completely stupid. But then, she supposed, his gift enabled him to spot the bad apples before they could make his life harder.

Ah, his gift. That had been _quite_ the surprise.

But there is little time to dwell on it as the ruins of the Chantry loom over her, the men and women of the faith guiding the believers to service in a large marquee set up just beyond the wreckage.

“Blessed are they who stand before the corrupt and and the wicked and do not falter,” recites the Sister at the doors of the hostel. Cassandra offers a short bow.

“Blessed are the peacekeepers, the champions of the just,” she murmurs in return – old habits, but faith is all these people have. The Sister smiles, allowing her entry.

Myra’s room is sparse – they all are, but there is an emptiness here that speaks of a lonely life. Cassandra finds it terribly familiar. She is suddenly glad of the small space in Varric’s quarters that had become home to her – the bed he had insisted on buying for her, the stack of books she had saved from the explosions, the tiny signs of a life barely lived.

She crouches down by the small camping stove, fingers trailing lightly along the floor as her eyes sweep the boards.

“Myra Adara Trevelyan,” she murmurs. “I wonder if your feet are truly that large…”

*

The trail is old, almost gone, but she takes the path slowly, quick eyes careful to spot the signs. There was no surefire way to know that this was the trail of the missing woman, but few made marks that hinted at a struggle.

She finds herself on the wrong side of the docks, a crude gate ripped out of one of the surrounding fences. Pushing through, the trail is renewed for the lack of foot traffic, and she quickly finds a promising target – a small outhouse, guarded by two men. Light on her feet, she slips around to the high window at the back of the building, jimmying it open with relative ease and hoisting herself through.

Inside, she finds a red-haired woman curled up on a small cot. The woman looks up, a panicked expression on her face.

“Who are you?”

“I am here to help. Can you move?”

She shuffles back slightly. “How do I know I can -”

“Your options are somewhat limited,” responds Cassandra curtly, but softens as she kneels next to her. “I promise, I mean you no harm. A friend of yours was concerned, and sent me to find you.”

“I don’t really have any friends. At least, none I remember.” Her gaze drops. “I don’t remember much of anything, I’m afraid.”

“What do you mean?”

“They took my memories away. I don’t remember – well, I don’t know what I can’t remember.” Her voice cracks, hands bunching into fists. “Do you know who I am?”

Cassandra rests a hand on her shoulder. “Your name is Myra, and you are missed. That is all I know, but I can take you to one who knows more. Would you come with me?”

Myra nods, wiping at her face. “I think I’d like that.”

Cassandra manages a smile, offering her hand. “Then we should get going.”

Getting her out of the window is the easy part. The hard part comes when the guards change rotation.

“Hey! Stop!”

Spinning Myra to her left, she reaches for the gun in her waistband and aims with her right, one eye closed as she picks out the two targets. _Bang_. One falls to the ground with a grunt, the other stopping in his tracks as he raises his own weapon -

_Bang_. She does not watch him fall, instead ushering Myra onwards to the gate.

“Quickly, we have to -”

_Bang.  
_

She cries out, pulling Myra in close to protect her as she risks a glance over her shoulder. A third. _There is always a third, fool!_ Her eyes drop to the ripped leather, the pain becoming increasingly sharp as the dark red blooms outwards.

“Don’t move another step,” growls the man.

_Bang.  
_

Myra’s hands are shaking, both wrapped tightly around the gun as if letting go might make things worse. The man crumples, a gasp escaping him.

“Put the gun down,” murmurs Cassandra, reaching up awkwardly to take the piece off her. Myra lets out a shaky breath, fingers uncurling slowly.

“I’m sorry.”

“You saved our lives.”

“I didn’t want to hurt anyone. I don’t – I don’t know what I’m doing.”

Cassandra wraps an arm around her, the adrenaline giving way to pain. “Hush,” she says softly, “you are doing well. But we need to get out of here and lie low for a while. Then we can see about sorting your memories out.”

“I don’t – I don’t even know your name.”

She takes in a sharp breath, guiding her back to the gate. “Call me Cassandra,” she says through gritted teeth, “and walk _quickly._ ”


	4. Three: Bloody Morning

Despite Varric’s assurances, Cullen had turned up painfully early the following morning, the sunrise still red in the sky.

“I’m not making you breakfast,” he grumbles as the man paces the floor, running a hand through ragged hair. “I _told_ you we’d call you.”

“I couldn’t sleep. Couldn’t think -” He stops, eyes falling once more to the inert phone that refuses to ring, no matter how hard Cullen stares at it. Varric rolls a cigarette.

“Look, Curly, there’s not a lot I can do for you here,” he says finally, looking up at the taller man. “She’s missing, not dead, and dead people turn up sooner, in my experience. Just let the Seeker do her job. We’ll call you.”

“Tethras -”

“We’ll. Call. You.” His tone brooks no argument, and Cullen shoots another glare as he turns on his heel to leave. But in the doorway, two shadows step into the light.

“Varric -” The Seeker stumbles, supported by the smaller woman, and Varric all but lunges to her side.

“Shit, did you get _shot?_ C’mon – here, sit down, let me look at this -”

“She’s washed it,” says the slighter of the women, a waver in her voice, “but she – it was last night.”

He tucks himself under her arm, taking her weight. “Thanks. Myra, right? I’m Varric.”

“Myra?” Cullen’s voice cracks, the hopeful look on his face illuminating. She looks up at him, a slight frown on her face.

“Do… do I know you?”

He pales. “Myra, it’s _me_. Cullen.”

She looks apologetic. “I’m… I’m sorry, I’ve… I’ve lost a lot of my memories, so I’ve… never seen you before.”

“Great,” mutters Varric, helping the Seeker into her seat. “Just fucking _great_ …”

Cullen reaches for Myra with trembling hands.

“Hush,” he murmurs, pulling her into a gentle embrace, “I promise, it will all be alright now. I promise.”

She stiffens in his arms, and Varric cannot help but feel bad for the pair. It was obvious how much Curly loved this woman, but her reaction was one of total terror. She had no idea who he was, and she was afraid.

Beside him, the Seeker hisses in pain, and he turns to find her probing at the hole in her shoulder. He smacks lightly at her fingers.

“Hey, stop that. Talk to me, Seeker, what happened out there?”

“The men holding Miss Trevelyan did not take kindly to her liberation,” she says dryly, and he glares at her. “Oh, do not give me that look. I was only hit _once_ -”

“Once is too many,” he growls, “and definitely too many for _you_ to be smart-mouthing _me_. Take off your shirt and let’s get you patched up properly.” He rummages through the small medical kit. “Any ideas who it was?”

She unbuttons her shirt, the fabric slipping far enough to reveal the still-fresh wound on her shoulder. “Give me a day,” she murmurs, “and I will have answers. My main focus was her.” She watches the woman for a long moment. “I worry. Such memory loss is usually temporary, but she spoke of her memories being taken, as if they were a commodity.”

“She’ll be alright. We’ll make sure of it. Besides, you know me. I’m a sucker for a good romance.” He narrows his eyes, twisting the forceps slightly. “This’ll hurt.”

“ _Ah_ -”

“Sorry. There, got it.” The soft clink of metal and he drops the bloodied tools, cleaning the blood away from her skin with care. “The way Curly looks at her? That’s real. That’s worth fighting for. So we’ll help them make it. Right?” He smiles as she rolls her head to look up at him, eyes strangely sharp.

“Shut up and fix my shoulder,” she says finally, though there is no heat to the remark.

“Yes, ma’am.”

She closes her eyes as he fishes out a needle. “You are right, though. It is very much worth fighting for.”

“Cassandra?” Myra hovers awkwardly, but Varric is more concerned about the use of her name. Her _real_ name. _Cassandra, what did you do?_ “What, uhm… what’s next?”

The Seeker smiles weakly at her. “Brave heart, Myra. You will be safe here, but we should think about finding you somewhere to stay.”

“We can make up a bed upstairs in the inn,” he offers. “I’ll talk to Eris.”

“Would you consent to questioning her? I know you do not much care for it, but I could use an edge. Anything you can get from her -”

His fingers slow as he ties off the stitches, cutting the thread with his teeth. “Seeing as you asked so nicely,” he drawls.

Myra looks concerned. “Questioning?”

Cullen steps forward. “Now, hang on a moment -”

“Oh, don’t get your panties in a bunch, Curly.” He glances up at the man as he pulls the Seeker’s shirt up again. “Just to see what she remembers about the men who took her. If that’s alright with you, Sister,” he adds with a short nod of his head.

She offers a slight smile. “Anything to help.” Behind her, Cullen pulls a face, but as she turns to him he quickly straightens up.

Spinning in her chair, the Seeker reaches to take his hand, squeezing it softly. “Thank you.”

He can feel her appreciation, but he is somewhat distracted. “Anytime, _Cassandra_.”

Her wince says it all. “I -”

“Not in front of the children,” he mutters, before resting his forehead against hers. “Just… be careful, alright? We have no idea who she is.”

“I trust her. I do not know why, but I trust her.” She looks up at him, swallowing. “Am I right to?”

He offers a slight smile. “I’ll find out. Worst comes to it, we can bury them out back.”

She swats at him. “ _Varric!_ ” But he can see the lines of tension releasing, relaxing as she suppresses a smile.

“You need anything before I do this? You look pretty beat.”

“We could do with a new mattress at the safehouse in Hightown,” she points out. “The rats could not be kept out.”

“Broody never minded them, and now they think they own the place. I’ll look into it when this is all over.”

She reaches up to pat his cheek lightly. “You need a shave,” she teases, and he grins as she scratches lightly along his jawline. “I do not think I have ever seen it so long.”

“I’m a man of principle, but my razor’s blunt.”

“You should have said sooner. I will take care of it tonight.”

“Thanks.” He leans in to kiss her forehead. “Go have a nap or something, alright? I’ll come get you before I start on Myra.”

She nods, pulling herself to her feet and extending a hand to the woman. “Come. Let us find you somewhere to rest a while. Oh, and Cullen? If I find you here when I get back, I _will_ shoot you. She is safe, and you need rest too.” Her tone brooks no argument, and Varric chuckles as the man pales slightly.

“I wouldn’t fuck with her, Curly, she’s got a hell of an aim…”


	5. Four: Perceptive

She ends up sleeping on the couch again – habit, terrible habit, but she feels wonderfully safe whenever she wakes up there, and today is no different. When Varric rouses her she cannot quite suppress the smile.

“What are you so cheery about?” he asks, offering a hand up.

“Nothing.” She rubs her shoulder awkwardly. “Is Myra alright?”

“Peachy. Cullen’s back, too. Insists he’s going to sit in on this.”

She rolls her eyes. “We cannot -”

“I already told him it was fine. It’s _fine_ ,” he repeats as she opens her mouth to protest. “He won’t understand it anyway.”

She pulls a face, but takes his hand, hauling herself up. “If you are sure…”

“Come on. I want to get this over with before dinner. Your turn.”

She smiles slightly. “I knew you liked my cooking.”

“No, your turn to pay,” he retorts over his shoulder. “You can’t cook a steak for shit.”

*

He sits across from her, eyes never leaving hers.

“Myra Adara Trevelyan. That’s your name, right?”

She nods. “Fourth child of Igrane and Jael, my siblings are -”

“Hey.” He offers a smile. “Don’t worry. I just want to help you get to the truth, alright? It’s not a test.”

She ducks her eyes, letting out a nervous laugh.

Cassandra watches from the corner of the room. She always found it fascinating, the way he could pick up even the tiniest detail. It was like an extremely heightened perception, he had explained once. He could read people extraordinarily well – could feel the emotions they had no voice for, could predict their next move. It was a gift, his mother had told him once.

She had heard of such Gifts in the dwarven folk. Folktales from long ago, myths that were proven to be false. Their connections to dreams had gone, and so had the strange talk of powers… except for him. 

She remembers the first time she had seen him use it  practically – a bar fight, of all things, him against six burly men. He had moved with an agility she had never expected, knowing _exactly_ where the punches and kicks were going to be and avoiding every single one. They had all left with broken limbs, and he had strolled out without a scratch.

But the Gift shone best when he talked to people – he could get anyone to talk, any time. He was social anyway, but being able to see the best angle to approach with worked wonders on even the most reclusive people. And they _always_ ended up telling him the truth.

There were no lies with him, he had said, only doors to which he could always find the key. 

She thinks about that now as he leans forward, his gaze intent.

“So your missing memories… you said they took them. What did you mean by that?”

“They had these… oh, I don’t know, like some sort of jar or something, and they talked about my memories being in there. It didn’t make much sense to me”

Opposite her, in the other corner, Cullen scowls.

“Seeker,” says Varric, “take him outside.”

“What?!” The man stands up abruptly, fists clenched.

“I need to approach this differently. I don’t want an audience.” He shares a look with Cassandra, who simply nods, striding over to grab Cullen’s arm.

“No!” He pulls away, glaring at the pair. “What is this – ridiculous scheme of yours? She’s done _nothing_ wrong -”

“Cullen, it’s alright.” Myra stands to approach him, resting a hand on his forearm. “I’m -” She stops quite suddenly, staring at her hand. “I, ah – I’m… I -”

“Myra?”

Cassandra turns to Varric, a questioning eyebrow raised. He does not respond, focusing on the other woman intently before motioning for the Seeker to take the man away. Pushing him out the door, she closes it with a short snap behind her.

He wrenches his arm away from her, running a hand through his hair. “Maker’s breath -”

“You knew Varric, a long time ago.” She fixes him with a stare. “You _know_ she is safe with him.”

“I know, I just… this feeling of helplessness…” He gestures weakly, shaking his head. “I do not care for it.”

She concedes the point, beckoning for him to follow back into the main office. “Come. Drink with me.” Pulling a bottle from Varric’s desk drawer, she motions for him to fetch glasses from the side, perching on the desk as he claims the seat.

“So… you and Tethras…” he prompts.

“We work together.”

“Just work?” He raises an eyebrow, and she dismisses it with a noise in the back of her throat.

“He took me in when I needed shelter. Given our current venture, it did not seem prudent to leave. But that is all it is.”

He does not push further, but Cassandra does not need Varric’ Gift to see the disbelief in his eyes – or feel the discord in her heart. She had grown quiet fond of the dwarf, in truth, but pursuing those feelings could only lead to heartache. She had already suffered enough of that.

“What of you and Myra? How did your paths cross?”

“Oh, I -” He blushes, caught off-guard. “We, ah… we met at service. I did not plan to be there, but something compelled me… and I am glad that it did.” His smile speaks volumes, and Cassandra cannot help but mirror the expression.

“You care for her a great deal for a man who claims to be a friend,” she murmurs over her glass.

“I would defy anyone _not_ to care about her,” he replies simply. “She is kind, compassionate beyond anything I have ever seen, and generous enough to come to a strange city that would see her torn apart.” He offers a thin smile of his own. “I imagine Tethras understands that a little, having taken you in.”

She opens her mouth to respond, but Cullen starts – behind her, Myra emerges from the side room.

“Varric says he’s got some leads, though I’ve truly no idea how. I said very little at all, and none of it seemed of worth.”

Cassandra smiles, sliding off the desk to take the woman’s hand. “Go and get some rest,” she offers kindly. “Eris has seen to it that your belongs – such as they are – have been brought over. You will be safe here.”

Myra nods, murmured thanks as she passes the pair and heads through to the inn. Cullen swiftly follows.

“Seeker!” Varric’s voice is tired, and she grabs another glass, pouring him a large drink before joining him. He perks at the sight, smiling crookedly. “You’re too good to me,” he drawls, before taking a sip of the warming whiskey.

“What happened?” she asks, taking Myra’s vacant seat.

“She was right. They literally took her memories – extracted them like vapour and bottled them up. I don’t know how, but they did.” He frowns, glancing over his notes. “Although… you saw the way she reacted when she touched Curly, right?”

She nods, frowning. “She did not react that way when he embraced her earlier.”

“I think it’s the _way_ she reached out to him – I’d wager she’s done that around him before. And her emotional connection to him is linked to that action. She was overcome by it.”

“So her memories – or at least the emotions behind the memories – they are still there?”

“So it seems.” He leans back, regarding her over the rim of his glass. “The question that matters most, however, is why. Why her? Why _any_ of this?”

“Only these men have the answer. Do we have a name?”

“Yeah, but it’s cryptic as hell.”

“Better than nothing.”

“You say that _now_.”

She raises an eyebrow. “What is it?”

“The Elder Ones.”


	6. Five: Kidnapped!

Dinner had been a quiet affair – the Gift, when applied in such a direct fashion, took a lot of energy out of Varric, but despite the fresh knowledge Cassandra knew he would not be in the mood to talk. They had ventured out to the local bistro before retiring upstairs early.

“Varric?”

He hovers at the doorway, eyes desperately trying to stay open. “Mm?”

She smiles slightly. “Thank you. For getting the truth.”

He waves a hand dismissively. “Needed to be done,” he murmurs, before shuffling off to his room. _Ridiculous woman_ , he thinks with a fond smile.

*

The morning brings a bitter wind, and Varric finds himself somewhat bereft. The Seeker had headed out early to find out more about the new lead they had on the Trevelyan girl, and Myra herself had been escorted by Cullen to services.

Still, there were bills to be paid and errands to run, and the brisk air does wonders for his head. After stopping off to pick up the Seeker’s gun, he drops in on an old contact to see if she knew anything about the acquisition of memories.

Elegant is as flirtatious as ever, despite the gleaming new wedding band. “ _Lady_ Elegant,” she insists, and he grins – ever the social climber. But she has little for him today, the idea of a memory as vapour utterly laughable to her. “Have you been drinking again, love?”

He rolls his eyes. “I know it sounds crazy -”

“It _is_ crazy,” she corrects. “Memories aren’t a commodity.”

“But what if they could be?”

“That’s fantasy, Varric.” She leans against the shop counter. “Trust me, I know a fantasy when I hear it.”

He hums non-noncommittally, thinking of Myra. “Alright. Something that hides memories, and produces a vapour.”

She shrugs. “Could be any number of draughts. Vapour’s a parlour trick, and amnesia is a common enough side-effect to a lot of things.”

“No, just amnesia,” he corrects her. “No other obvious effects.”

“That… is something new,” she says reluctantly. “I’d pay a lot of money for that.”

He smiles slightly. “If I get my hands on it, I’ll let you know.” The promise is hollow, of course – he is sure of their theory, completely sure that this is something new, but he could only hope that the Seeker had more luck in her investigations.

*

The silence in the inn is oppressive, and he glances around to find Eris – but to no avail. His office door hangs open, and he curses under his breath, reaching for the gun he kept holstered at his back.

But the moment his hand grasps Bianca’s handle, he hears it. The soft scraping of his chair. Sidling up to the door, he peers in. A man sits at his desk, humming an old drinking song. Four other men turn the place upside down. His hand lets go of the weapon – a firefight in his office? Over his dead body. Pushing the door open, he strolls in.

“Funny,” he says loudly, watching the goons turn to scowl at him. “I don’t remember leaving the door unlocked.”

“Varric Tethras.” The voice is every inch crooked, the owner even more so. “Our mutual friend says hello.”

“I feel awful bad for any mutual friend of ours,” he quips, “having to associate with you.”

The man chuckles. “Oh, she said you were a funny one. Boys, get him.”

Varric could feel a laugh coming on, himself – the ‘boys’ were burly dwarves, but they had no idea what they were getting into. He slips into a defensive stance, fists raised as he watches them carefully.

Their movements were sluggish, slow… and strangely random. Their first few swings go wide, but not through any assistance from his usual foresight. He takes a step back -

**Crack**. The man to his left connects, fist meeting temple hard. He falls to the floor, eyesight blurry and head in agony. How had he missed that? 

“You’re probably wondering,” drawls the crooked man, “how he hit you. After all, you are uniquely… _gifted_.”

A pool of fear begins to gather in Varric’s stomach. They _knew_. How could they know? He guarded that secret with his life! Only three people alive were aware – who was this mutual friend, and was she the one who had ratted him out?

“Pick him up. The Seeker should be able to understand this message, at the very least.”

He swings for the offending man, managing to crack his jaw. Something falls from his head – plastic, moulded… an earpiece? But he is given little time to contemplate this information before his head is forced against the floor with alarming speed, rendering the world black.

*

He comes to his senses in a gloomy room, his head pounding.

“You should have stayed away, Varric.”

That voice. He _knew_ that voice. He looks up, eyes pained.

“Why?” he rasps. “Why did you -”

“I had no choice,” she whispers. “Just… just don’t scream. Please. Don’t scream.” And she vanishes into the black.

“Hey! HEY! YOU OWE ME A FUCKING EXPLANATION, YOU -”

**Crack**. His head swims, a groan bubbling from his lips.

“Settle down, Tethras.” The crooked man appears to his left, baseball bat on his shoulder. “I’d rather spare you the unpleasantaries if I can. Permanent damage is… messy.”

He spits out a mouthful of blood. “Fuck off with your unpleasantaries.”

“Now, now. If it wasn’t for you and your pet Seeker, this might all have been avoided. But you had to take our pet project away, didn’t you?” He tuts. “We still need her. The long term ramifications of our project need supervision.” He beckons to someone beyond Varric’s vision. “Looks like we’ll have to start over.”

His men wheel over a strange contraption – wires and tubes and glass bottles all feeding in and out of a metal box that hummed despite no obvious power source. One of the men brings forward a foreign-looking orb, resting it in a cradle, and the box crackles. The hair on the back of his neck stands on end, his gut roiling.

The crooked man picks up an oxygen mask. “Prepare to forget.”

“No – no, _shit_ , no no no -” He thrashes in his restraints, and they hold his head as they attach the mask.

“Just breathe deeply,” croons the crooked man, smiling. “You won’t even remember that it hurt.”

Varric shakes, wide-eyed as the machine roars to life -

_\- Seeker!_ -

\- and then there is nothing.


	7. Six: Watch The Birdie

Cassandra is greeted at the Old Hanged Man by a surly Eris and a worried Myra, and a distinct absence.

“Where’s Varric?”

Eris does not say a word, instead leading the woman through to the office – ransacked thoroughly and with the depressing silence that reminds her of the tombs of the City of the Dead in Nevarra.

She shoves that comparison away sharply.

“Varric?” She calls out, despite the lump in her throat, the creeping feeling down her spine. Glancing around, her heart catches – here, on the floor… blood.

It had been more than a year since she had first found herself on the doorstep of his home, desperate and broken and full of rage. Since then she had not been parted from him for more than a day, always coming back to his company regardless of which safe-house they were hiding in, regardless of how many bullets she had suffered, regardless of anyone else’s intervention – she had always come home to him.

And now she had finally failed him, the way she had failed everyone else. _Maker, forgive me._

“Ca- Seeker?” Myra’s voice brings her back to the moment, fists tight and fury great. But she turns to the woman with a calm face.

“Miss Trevelyan, would you do me a favour?”

She nods. “Whatever I can do to help.”

“Go to Cullen, and tell him I require his assistance. And then stay at his apartment until I send for you. Understood?”

 

Myra nods again, gathering her coat around her. “What will you do?”

“What I must.” She turns to Eris. “Call Hawke. I want eyes everywhere, now.”

*

The Seeker rarely _enjoys_ working with Hawke.

The truth of the matter is that Hawke is the kind of friend who simply did not like the cloak and dagger approach that often worked best in her line of work. No, Hawke reveled in explosions and noise, confusion and chaos, and it rankled. It was downright _unprofessional_. But with Varric missing… well. She needed to find Varric, and nobody knew the underground of this city like Hawke.

By the time Cullen arrives, Cassandra has mapped the entire encounter, but for one glaring issue – who could have gotten the jump on Varric? Still, it is hardly the highest priority right now. Getting him back, alive and in one piece… she tries not to dwell on other outcomes.

She sends Cullen to the Guard, because Aveline would want to know, before tidying the desk. Evidence mattered little anymore – she knew the Guard-Captain would leave her to pursue the matter personally.

She avoids his chair.

Within the hour, Hawke appears with a face like thunder and answers.

“In _my_ fucking city!”

Cassandra takes a deep breath before turning to her. “Who?”

“The only people stupid enough to make a move against us, of course. Some punk Carta thugs under the banner of the Elder One – Fenris investigated them a few weeks back, but he doesn’t bother with low-life drug pushers.”

Her gut coils. “Then this is a message,” she says softly. “We took Myra back, and now they have him.”

Hawke frowns. “What do you mean?”

“The case we are working on… there is a woman, held captive and her memories taken. We liberated her.” She closes her eyes, her imagination putting Varric into that dank little outhouse.

“Then we’ll liberate him too,” Hawke promises, “and show them what we do to bastards who won’t follow the rules.”

*

The real problem is her approach.

Hawke cracks her knuckles. “Okay, so – I mean, look, I’m like… 20% sure this plan will work. The other 80% means we could die horribly and violently, but honestly? It’s a really solid plan.”

The Seeker pinches the bridge of her nose, a sharp frustrated noise escaping her throat. “Other options?”

“Practically zero. We could try something more subtle, but there’s no guarantee we can get through the gates on our feminine charms alone. No offense, Curly,” she adds, grinning at the man.

“None taken,” he murmurs. “But why aren’t we getting the Guard involved for an assault on their stronghold?”

“Aveline would not approve,” supplies Cassandra.

Hawke grins. “She has a sign and everything.”

“I get the picture.” 

The Seeker sighs, shaking her head slightly. “Alright. We do this your way.” Varric trusts her, she thinks with a grimace, and so she must trust her to get Varric out of there. _Maker help us all._

The woman grins, smudging her trademark red paint across her nose. “Alright. Let’s get our dwarf back.”

*

It takes exactly fourteen minutes to find him.

“Here!” calls Hawke, and Cassandra slips in through the doorway.

He is bloodied and bruised and bleary-eyed, but Varric is _alive_ , and something in her chest loosens as she kneels by his side.

“Took you long enough,” he mumbles, closing his eyes as Hawke reaches up to brush his hair from his face. “Who’s your friend?”

Hawke raises an eyebrow. “The Seeker, idiot.”

“Fancy title.” He glances at Cassandra for a moment before shrugging. “I’d shake hands, but I’m a little tied up right now.”

She swallows hard, blinking back tears. “Oh,” she breathes, rocking back on her heels. “ _Oh_.” And there is a whole world contained in that soft exhale, an ache she has never truly known, but as he looks at her placidly she can only imagine what terrifying horror he might feel at being corrected.

Hawke shakes his shoulder. “What are you on about? You know her.”

“No,” Cassandra corrects, as he frowns. “Not anymore. They have -” She stops, swallowing again. “They have taken his memories.”

“You mean these?” asks Cullen. All three of them look up. He stands next to the crates, holding aloft a rounded glass bottle filled with a strange green mist. “This is what Myra described, isn’t it?”

Hawke hauls herself up, stalking over and snatching the bottle from his hand, glaring intently at it. “This is his _memory?_ That’s ridiculous!”

Varric has the good grace to look awkward. “Uh… Seeker, right?” She starts at the name, the foreign way it falls from his mouth, but nods. “Could you take these cuffs off?”

“Oh! Of course.” She fiddles with the buckles, leaning in close. “I am sorry we could not get here sooner,” she adds in a low tone.

“Don’t worry about it. Not like I was going anywhere.” Despite his glib remark, she can hear the worry in his tone. The realisation that something was very wrong.

Somewhere in the compound, an explosion rattles the walls.

Hawke whistles, long and low. “That’s our timer,” she reminds them. “Five minutes. We gotta go.”

But Cassandra reaches up, on impulse, fingers light as she runs her nails softly along Varric’s jawline. “You shaved,” she whispers.

He stares at her, an intensity she has rarely seen from him, and she feels the faintest flicker of hope. “I, uh…”

“Seeker?” Cullen holds up two more bottles. “Seeker, they’re doing something!”

“Varric,” she murmurs, resting her forehead against his, “oh, _Varric_ , I am so sorry. I failed you. Maker forgive me, I failed you.”

He reaches out, cupping her cheek and brushing an errant tear away with his thumb. “Don’t cry,” he whispers. “I don’t… I don’t want _you_ to cry. I don’t know why.”

Beyond them, something shatters. Hawke swears.

“Seeker!”

She glances over - 

“Maker’s _breath_ …”

Almost half the bottles were glowing, vibrating in the crate, and the one in Hawke’s hand had shattered, the mist swirling around her palm.

“Varric, buddy,” she says sharply, “I think this is yours.” And she holds her hand out to him. As if beckoned, the mist flies to him, surrounding him for a moment before he breathes it in deeply.

There is a horrifying moment of quiet, and then he _screams_.


	8. Seven: Close Encounters

He comes to his senses in his own bed, which is always a nice feeling. The faint smell of smoke lingers, an afterthought in the air.

“Hawke,” he murmurs with a smile, opening his eyes.

“She just left.” The Seeker’s voice sounds far away. He turns his head to find her sat by the door, hands tight in her lap. He does not need the Gift to see the hurt. “But she will be back. Loose ends to tie up.” The dark tone to her voice does not bode well for whoever happened to be that loose end.

“What happened?”

She meets his eyes. “What do you remember?”

“I got played.” He hauls himself up the pillow, wincing as the aches and pains make themselves known. “They knew what I can do, and they prepared for it. They used earpieces, they were being controlled from outside the body and left me with nothing to read. Neat trick – next time I’ll be ready for it.”

“There will not _be_ a next time,” she says quietly. “We did not leave enough behind for them to recover. Varric -”

He smiles gently. “I remember everything else. Whatever they did to my head, you fixed it. I’m _fine_ ,” he adds softly. “Look at me, Seeker, I’m fine. Want me to recite some facts to prove it?”

Her shoulders are still tightly bunched. “No, I -”

“Cassandra Allegra Portia Calogera Filomena Pentaghast. I’m one of the only people in the world to know that. You turned up on my doorstep just over a year ago. You know, we never did celebrate that particular anniversary.” He rolls his neck, working out the aches. “The first night, you had nightmares so bad that you nearly broke your neck when you fell off the couch. We don’t talk about them, but I know they upset you still.”

She shrinks a little, pulling her gaze away. “You do not have to –“

“You asked me a few days ago to get my pal, Olaf, to repair your gun. I told you it was ten sovereigns. I lied. It’s twenty. But I still owe you from that time you paid off my drinking debt to Worthy.”

“I _told_ you that was nothing to worry about -” She stops, looking up once more. He can see the anguished look in her eyes, and he frowns.

“Hey. C'mere.”

She watches him from the other side of the room for a long moment before crossing to sit on the edge of his bed. She is trembling – just slightly, just enough for someone like him to notice. Had she really been that worried?

“Hey,” he murmurs, pulling her into his arms. “It’s alright.”

She falls into his embrace easily, too easily, curling up in his lap with her head on his shoulder. “You were screaming so much,” she whispers, voice strangely small.

He closes his eyes for a moment, remembering the taste of the fear in his throat. He had been bombarded with memories, all in a rush – every second of his failures in Kirkwall, every body lying in the dust behind him, every soft brush of Cassandra’s fingers against his skin, every passionate kiss from Bianca -

The memory of the explosion tugs at him, and he pushes it away. “Kirkwall does that to people,” he offers, and her fingers tighten around his arm. “But I’m alright. I weathered it once, so I could do it again.”

“Sorry.” Her voice hitches, and he presses his lips to her forehead.

“Not your fault.”

“I should have –“

“Hey, stop that. I’m okay. Look at me, it’s alright.” He offers a smile. “You got through to me.”

“I failed you.”

“You _saved_ me.” He pushes her back slightly, hands on her shoulders as he beseeches to her. “You got through, made all those memories shake – shit, Cassandra, you cracked this whole mess wide open just by _touching_ me.” And that is a thought that warms his heart, that he could feel her despite it all.

She wipes at her face, shaking her head. “An accident. Just stupid luck.”

“Don’t knock stupid luck, that’s what we live on most of the time,” he teases, and she manages a weak laugh. “Did you get the rest of the memories?”

“Yes, I asked Cullen to bring Myra here. We will see if their connection can jolt some memories of hers.”

“Clever girl.”

“Varric, I… I cannot do any of this without you. I cannot trust people the way you can, and without that trust – without _you_ -”

Something is seriously off with her, he realises. Her voice is tight, her gaze slow to linger – had she been drugged? He had never seen such a look on her. Normally he would expect this from someone who -

_Oh_.

For a man who could usually see through people, he had taken embarrassingly long to realise this particular sentiment. But then again, he reasons, he had never had any cause to _look_ for it. She had thrown herself into her work after her last lover, Galyan, had been killed. But the signs were now as plain as they had been on Curly’s face. And as for him… well, Bianca had left her mark. Despite his own feelings for the Seeker, he had pushed them aside to protect himself. Foolish, he thinks now. He could die tomorrow and she might never know –

Maker, they were _idiots._

He cups her chin, forcing her to meet his eyes.

“Cassandra. We’re alright.”

“Are we?” she murmurs.

He smiles, tilting his head slightly. “Yeah. Yeah, we are.” Leaning in, he presses his lips against hers, the soft noise of surprise melting into a pleasurable moan as her hands cradle his head, pulling him in closer.

How many times had he daydreamed about this? And yet his vivid imagination could not hold a candle to the real thing – her body pressed up against his chest, fingers soft against his scalp, her taste achingly sweet. She drowns his senses, and he gladly submits. He never wants this to end.

She pulls back, breathless. “I thought -”

“Me too.”

“But you can see -”

He growls. “ _Shut up_.” He pulls her in again, mouth open as he claims her once more, tongue and teeth clashing as his hands cradle her neck. Her nails tease at his skin, a moan bubbling up from her throat. Rocking her over onto her back, he trails lingering kisses down her throat, savouring the taste of her skin. His knee slides between her legs, pressing against her, and she bucks against him with a whimper.

“Varric,” she breathes, “ _please_ –“

Her passion pours from her lips, hands grasping for the waistband of his pants, and he lets out a sharp exhale as her fingers trail along his hip. “ _Ah_ – Cassandra –“

Downstairs, a knock breaks through the quiet. “Varric? Cass- I mean, Seeker? Anyone home?” Myra’s voice is soon followed by Cullen’s, another call for attendance before they fade to a murmur.

Varric’s lips press against the hollow of her throat. Raising his eyes to meet hers, he offers a smirk. She bites her lip, eyes struggling to focus on him, and he is sorely tempted to claim her once more, and damn the people downstairs. 

“You know,” he teases in a whisper, “we should be glad it wasn’t Hawke. She would have just come in.”

She blushes, ducking her eyes before clearing her throat. “I should –“

“I know.”

“Even though I do not _want_ to,” she adds, before sitting up enough to shout back a response. “I will be down shortly. Please wait for me in the office.”

Varric swallows, reluctantly moving to free her from his attentions. He had not foreseen this, was not sure what came next. 

“We should, ah… we should probably talk about this,” he points out quietly. “This changes our working relationshi-”

She cuts him off with another kiss, softer this time, pulling away with a small smile. “Later,” she murmurs, “when you regain your senses and can think of all the reasons that this is a bad idea.” Her thumb glides over his cheek, eyes on his lips. He feels bare underneath her gaze, and strangely does not mind. “Later, when I have a counterargument to those reasons,” she adds, even quieter. She straightens, the smile fading quickly. “For now, you need to rest and I need to talk to Myra, and see what can be learned.”

“I’ll come with –“

“ _Rest_ ,” she insists, kissing his shoulder before she stands, and he can only watch as she falls back into the safety of the Seeker – her shoulders roll back before straightening, the steel in her resolve visible as her eyes harden. It was always a sight to behold, to watch Cassandra become the hard edges and straight-backed woman who did not falter. The woman who could always get to the truth. 

“Be careful,” he says. “They’re still out there, they _know_ us. Just because we’re safe now, doesn’t mean -”

“No,” she says, a dark tone to her voice as she squeezes his fingers. “They do not know _me._ ”


	9. Eight: Through the Looking-Glass

Cassandra descends the stairs, surprised at the state of the place. She had left most of the mess out of haste, but apparently in their absence Myra had returned to busy herself – and Maker, she had done _quite_ the job. Files neatly stacked and arranged by date, floor spotless, medical supplies put away… Cassandra was quite sure the office had never been so clean in all her time in Kirkwall.

The woman in question stands by the window, pushing it open to let out the stale air. “There. Better, right?”

Cullen, leaning against the doorway, opens his mouth to agree, but Cassandra beats him to it.

“You really did not have to do any of this.”

Myra jumps, turning with red cheeks to face the woman. “I – I wanted to help –“

“And I appreciate the gesture,” she says, smiling slightly. “But it was not necessary. Now,” she adds, hands on hips as she regards the man. “Did you discuss with her what we discovered?”

“I thought it best to show her,” he admits.

“You might be right about that, but a little forewarning might ease things. Myra, please – take a seat.”

As Cullen comes in to sit next to her, the pair take the two chairs by the desk. The Seeker leans against the wood, taking a deep breath.

“We have much ground to cover,” she begins. “But first, let me set your mind at ease. Varric is -”

“Shit,” a familiar voice exclaims, “we have a _floor_ in here?”

She turns, rolling her eyes. “I told you to rest, Varric.”

“Yeah, and I ignored you.” He is slow to come down the stairs fully, rubbing at his forehead. “Besides, someone ought to tell her what to expect. Figured I was best placed for that.”

A pang of guilt surges through her once again, but he crosses over to her with a stern look of _don’t_ as he presses a kiss to her temple. She cannot quite stop the smile on her lips. “Do not complain to me when you have overextended yourself.”

“Duly noted and ignored,” he drawls, flopping into his chair with a wince. “Aahh,” he sighs. “That’s better. Now, where were we?”

Myra shuffles in her seat, looking awkward. “What… what’s going on?” she asks quietly. “You’re all talking like something’s going to happen to me.”

Cullen offers his hand. “On my life, you will be fine,” he promises.

Varric smiles. “That’s _my_ line, given recent events,” he deadpans.

“What happened? How did they find you?” asks the woman.

“Oh, you know me. Not exactly hiding here, am I? They took me out and decided that they needed a new guinea-pig for their memory machine. But I got better, as you can see.” He leans forward, eyes kind. “So now we can make you better, too. If you’re ready. Now, it won’t be easy, and I can’t promise that it’s painless… but it’s worth it, I promise.”

She looks uncertain, but nods.

“Cullen, would you accompany Myra to the side room?” Cassandra watches as he offers his arm, notes how she seems to still at his touch, a firmness in her that forms a determined glint in her eyes.

“You’re reading her,” says Varric as the door closes behind them. “I’m rubbing off on you, Seeker.”

She throws him a look over her shoulder. “I noticed something,” she says loftily, “nothing more.”

He chuckles. “You’re _reading_ people. I’ve never felt more proud.” And he sounds it, a tone in his voice that warms her and prompts a smile. She reaches for his hand -

The door slams. Her hand pulls back sharply, and she jumps, turning to find the source of the noise.

“ _Varric!_ ” Hawke has a smile that beams as she crosses the room to pull the dwarf into a tight hug. “Maker alive, you’re a sight for sore eyes.” Pulling back, she glares. “You should be resting. Why isn’t he resting, Seeker?”

“I did _try_ to tell him,” she drawls. “But you know how he gets.”

“Arse. Go back to bed.”

He pulls a face. “Your concern is noted and filed away. I need to help that woman in there.”

“We should begin. Hawke, would you care to join us?”

“Can’t hurt.” She offers Varric a hand up. “Come on, old man. Let’s go make memories.”

*

“The problem we encountered last time was that an emotional connection caused a severe reaction. But now that we know how to identify the correct memories, we can do this slowly.” Cassandra motions for Hawke to unbox the bottles, before nodding to Varric.

He kneels in front of Myra, smile gentle. “We’re gonna be here with you the entire time, alright?”

She manages a brief nod. Cullen does not look so certain.

“Are we really sure there’s no better way?” The tightness in his voice is evident, and Myra reaches out to him to calm him -

“Ah,” breathes Cassandra, “perfect timing.”

They slow, as if caught in time, eyes meeting with that piercing intensity reserved for lovers not quite in step with one another. Beyond them, Cassandra’s eyes meet Varric’s.

“Seeker, we’ve got a live one…” Hawke pulls at her attention, and she moves to the woman’s side, watching as several of the bottles come to life in front of them. Glowing and trembling, many of them clinking together – but not all.

“Put these ones back. We need to find out who else was taken in this manner, if we can.”

“There’s _another_ one out there?” Varric sounds distressed at the idea, and Cassandra bites her lip, worried.

“I am not so sure,” she admits. “Surely they would have kept such a person prisoner… and yet…”

Hawke shrugs. “Maybe Myra freed them, and that’s why she was taken. Like with Varric.”

“Perhaps.” But she is not convinced. “Regardless, we shall deal with that conundrum later. Myra is our priority.” Holding aloft one of her memories, Cassandra considers it. “Would it be easier if she were to ingest it in a more natural manner? Drinking from the bottle?”

“Anyone’s guess.” Hawke plucks it from her fingers. “Let’s find out!”

“ _Hawke!_ ”

“Seeker, we won’t know unless we try, and I’d rather not slice my hand up on another of these blasted things.” She strides over to Myra, jolting the woman slightly. “Hey. Drink this.”

Myra’s fingers tighten around the glass. “What?”

“Drink it. It’s yours.”

“Myra, wait -”

But Cullen’s words are cut off by a hand held up. There is a strange look to Myra’s eyes as she regards the bottle. “I’ve been in the dark too long,” she murmurs, before uncorking it. The mists swirl and eddy around her lips as she tips it back into her mouth.

To her credit, she does not scream.


	10. Nine: Memento Myra

They work through the bottles slowly – one an hour, or so Varric would guess. Myra bears them better than he had. But then, he supposes, watching her hands tremble and eyes dart around the room, she had all the time in the world and a lot more history to recall. 

After the first few hours, Hawke pulls Cassandra away, a soft murmur that sets the Seeker on edge, and the pair retire.

“What’s up?” he asks, knowing already that neither of them will give him the truth.

“Just a loose end to tie up.” Hawke offers a smile. “Don’t worry your pretty little head about it.”

Cassandra’s hand is light on his shoulder, but he does not miss the surreptitious check for her weapon as she slips her jacket on. “Take care of Myra,” she murmurs, “and look after yourself. I will be back before the dawn.”

“You’d better be.”

The daylight does not linger, the dark of the evening creeping up sharply. By the time the last bottle is empty, Myra is shaking all over. Cullen picks her up in his arms.

“She needs to rest.”

“Couldn’t agree more.” Varric presses a light kiss to her knuckles. “You did great,” he adds, voice gentle, “and now the worst is over.”

“No,” she whispers, “no it’s not.” But if she has any further thoughts, they are lost to slumber.

“Take her upstairs. Keep an eye on her – she’ll need you, in the morning.”

The man nods, pulling her in close as he takes her upstairs.

Varric lingers a little longer, staring at the remaining bottles. Comparatively, he had gotten off easy – only a year or two lost, compared to Myra’s near-decade-long disquiet. And by the looks of it, their third victim had suffered similarly. He cannot help but wonder who it might be.

In the quiet of the office, he misses Cassandra intensely, fingertips trailing over the desk. Varric considers waiting up for her, but his body aches and he is still exhausted, and despite the worry in his heart he heads to bed and sleeps like the dead.

*

He rises late, feeling considerably better for the sleep, to find the Seeker curled up on the couch, a half-melted ice-pack on her knuckles.

“Hey, slugger.”

She lifts weary eyes to meet his, smile soft. “How are you feeling?”

“A lot better than you look. C’mon, downstairs, I need to look at your hand.”

“It is nothing –“

“ _Cassandra_.” His tone brooks no argument, and after a moment of reluctance she unfurls her limbs from their odd shapes and slopes down the stairs.

“You know, this office is actually pretty nice when it is clean,” she points out as she plonks herself down on the stool.

He shrugs noncommittally. “I’ll be trying to find things for weeks. I hate when other people try to organise my life for me.”

“I will bear that in mind,” she says with a sly smile, and he laughs as he sits opposite her, taking her injured hand in his.

“So. Gonna tell me?”

“Hawke went back. We dismantled their operations rather successfully, but she wanted more answers. We needed more answers. And she found very little left after our rescue operati- _ah!_ ” She tries to pull her hand away, but his grip tightens on her wrist as he wipes the blood away.

“Sorry. Go on.”

“She found someone. Brought him to one of her nests, thought I might like to lead the interrogation.” Her tone is light, but he can see how tightly wound she remains. _Poor bastard_ , thinks Varric. And then he scrubs that thought.

“Get much from him?”

“Enough.”

He stills, watching her carefully. “You didn’t –“

“If you do not wish to know,” she says, voice clipped, “then do not ask.”

“Seeker…”

“What would you have of me? He _bragged_ , Varric! He bragged about taking you, about _hurting_ you! He –“ Her voice catches, and he pulls her forward, forehead meeting hers.

“Hey. I’m alright. Look at me, I’m alright.”

“He knew you were Gifted,” she whispers. “How did he know?”

Varric does not say. He cannot. To admit that Bianca had sold him out, for whatever reasons she might have had, would be to throw a dark shadow over an already-delicate mood. Instead he presses a kiss to her cheek.

“Where did you put him?”

“Hawke took care of it.”

“You shouldn’t have had to do that.”

Her arms wrap around his neck, her voice quiet. “I would do it again. He deserved nothing less for hurting you.”

“Ah, Cassandra…”

“Shut up and fix my hand,” she mumbles, pulling back.

He reaches for the bandages, muttering under his breath. “Demanding woman…” But he still kisses her hands before wrapping it up.

*

Myra emerges in the early evening, and there is a strength about her that seems both entirely strange and perfectly natural. _This_ is the real Myra, he thinks with a slight smile.

He makes a pot of tea as she begins to explain the whole mess.

“My name is Myra Trevelyan, and I am an agent of the Inquisition.”

Cassandra’s jaw drops. “The Inquisition is reformed?”

“For those of us unenlightened… what does that mean?” asks Varric.

“The Inquisition was a great order, once dedicated to ridding the world of corruption at the highest levels. It held all accountable, regardless of rank.” Myra shifts slightly in her seat, regarding her tea. “There are those of us who thought it was high time it made a comeback.”

“Because of what happened here, in the city…”

“In part, though the picture is far greater than you could know. But I did not come here on business. I came to find someone.” She hesitates, reaching for Cullen’s hand. “The memories in that crate belong to my brother. I came here searching for him, and found the enemy torturing him for information on me. News of the Inquisition is spreading, and these Elder Ones have a vested interest in keeping the status quo for now, so I suppose I should have expected it. But once they knew my face… well. They had little use for him.”

Varric and Cassandra share a look. Both knew the keening loss, in their own way, of losing a brother. But neither say a word – what else is there to say of the dead?

“Whilst I cannot bring him home to my family, I can ensure his memories do not fall into the wrong hands. Do you know of any reputable merchants who might be sailing the coast?”

Rivaini comes to mind, and Varric smiles. “I might know a woman.”

Cassandra lets out a tut. “Not Isabela.”

“She’s discrete -”

“Ha!”

“… about work,” he amends. “And she is trustworthy. If you can arrange someone to meet her at the docks in Ostwick, I’ll bring the crate to her.”

“Thank you, Varric. Thank you, both of you, for everything.” And then she smiles, an enchantingly sweet look on her face. “If it weren’t for you two…”

Varric grins, clapping a hand on the Seeker’s knee. “Don’t worry about it, Sister. It’s kinda what we do.”


	11. Ten: Later

Cassandra embraces Myra, pressing a light kiss to her cheek. “You will call, when you get to Haven.” It is not a question.  
  
“Yes, of course! Are you quite sure you can’t…”  
  
“I cannot pick sides, not with this city so fragile. We must take steps to protect those who cannot look after themselves.” She pulls back, regarding the woman. “Perhaps, in time, I will reconsider.”  
  
Cullen claps Varric on the back. “Thank you,” he murmurs.  
  
“Think nothing of it, Curly. You just keep her safe. Kirkwall won’t be the same without you.”  
  
“That might not be a bad thing.” Cullen and Cassandra share a nod, a respect borne of circumstances, before Myra takes his hand and they head back out through the inn.  
  
Cassandra watches them go for a long moment. If the Inquisition was truly to return… well. She owed too much to this city, to this dwarf, to walk away now. Besides, there were still questions to answer. Who had betrayed Varric? Were the Elder Ones still a threat to Kirkwall? Would -  
  
“So.”  
  
She closes her eyes, her back towards him as she takes a deep breath. She had known this was coming, of course, but ‘later’ had been a nice abstract to push aside in favour of the current problems. 'Later’ was never 'now’… until it was.  
  
“Another case put to bed.” He potters back across the room, taking his seat and leaning back, and she perches on the edge of the desk – habit, awful habit. “So what was that about? Refusing to pick sides – come on, Seeker, you’ve always picked a side. We’re the good guys, every time.”  
  
“You were compromised,” she points out. “If choosing a side means that you are put in that situation again… no. That cannot happen again.”

“What, the earpiece trick? Only person still alive who knows how my abilities work is you, Seeker. And _you’re_ not about to rat me out, are you?”

She smiles slightly. “I suppose not.”

“Well, then. We’re alright.”

His words echo those of the day before, the words that had led to unexpected joy. She wonders now how long he had known, how long he had understood her heart and said nothing… but she pushes the thought away. Varric was not cruel. Perhaps he really did have a blind spot. Perhaps it was not, as she had always assumed, Bianca.

He grins, hands tight on her hips as she slides her across the desk to settle in front of him, legs dangling either side of his. “Cassandra,” he says in a warning tone, “you’ve got that look. What’s up?”

Her real name on his tongue – it is still something of a thrill, even after all this time, and it brings a slight smile to her lips. “You tell me,” she murmurs. “I am still waiting for your list of reasons as to why this is a bad idea.”

“Oh, I’ve got plenty,” he laughs. “But the pros outweigh the cons.”

She laughs, fingers reaching up to trail across his jawline. “Do tell.”

“Alright. Con – it’s unprofessional. Never mix business and pleasure. Pro – we’re not exactly your regular professionals, we don’t clock out at 5pm. If we don’t grab our pleasure where we can, we’ll never get it.”

“Sound reasoning,” she admits. “What else?”

“Con – it’s dangerous. One of us gets hurt, the other’s more likely to do something… stupid.” He presses a gentle kiss to the bandage on her hand. “Pro – that’s nothing new. And denying ourselves isn’t going to change that.”

Her thumb grazes over his lips, her heart skipping despite herself. “I would do many dangerous and stupid things to keep you safe,” she admits, throat tight.

“Yeah, well, your judgement is terrible. Good job I’m around, really,” he teases, his own voice oddly strained. “Someone’s gotta keep you safe when you’re a hazard to yourself.”

She chuckles weakly. “Shut up.”

“Con – feelings. They, ah… they’ve hurt us before, in different ways. Bianca for me, Galyan for you. You always said never again, right? You didn’t have to say it, but it was obvious.” He swallows, his gaze dropping to her lips. “Pro… I, uh… I’m fairly confident you, uh…” He trails off as she licks her lips.

“Varric?”

“You _do_ , don’t you?” His eyes meet hers, and she is struck by their worry. “I mean, you _do_. I _know_ you do, I can… I can _see_ it, but -”

“I do,” she whispers, mirroring the smile that blooms on his face.

“Yeah. I, uh… I needed to hear it. And I mean, _I_ do, so -”

“You do?”

“Of course I do. How could I _not?_ ” He pulls her into his lap, grinning. “Pro – you’re extremely attractive, and definitely in my league. Pro – you put up with my shit jokes. Pro -”

“You ran out of cons,” she points out, arms wrapping around his neck.

“What can I say? You’re very distracting.” His lips are inches from hers, his breath warm on her skin. “How I get _anything_ done is a mystery.”

“Shut up.”

“Gladly.”

She kisses him, her lips gentle despite her desire, and savours the moment as his breath hitches and his hands tighten on her hips. He is rough beneath her, worn hands and scuffed edges and a tiredness that came only from living through the worst the city had to offer – but there is a softness to him that she has always been drawn to, a tenderness in the way he spoke with people, the gentle touches that had defined their unlikely alliance.

She had almost lost him, and now she had more of him than she could ever have dreamed. Her heart soars at the thought.

And then it changes, turning like a hurricane – desperate hot breaths shared as her hands grip at his shirt, his hips rocking to meet hers. One of his hands reaches up, cupping her neck and tilting her head just enough for his mouth to take advantage of her dropped guard, devouring her with a heated moan. He is fire, consuming her from within, and she has never wanted to burn so much in her life.

“Varric -”

“No more cases,” he growls, trailing kisses down her throat. “Not for at least a week. Call it a vacation.”

“Anything – _anything_ , just keep -” Her voice catches in her throat as his hand slides up her waist.

“You know, my Gift isn’t just limited to knowing who’s telling the truth. It’s reading people, Cassandra. Understanding what their body is saying.” His lips graze against her ear, and she shivers. “Understanding what they _need_.”

“ _Oh_ -”

“I know what your body wants before you do,” he whispers, “and I’m gonna give it to you. I’m gonna make you _scream_.”

She laughs, a delirious throaty noise. “Good luck with that –” She bites back a cry as he drags his teeth along her earlobe, chuckling.

“Trust me.”

“Always.”

“Mm, I like the way you say that -”

The phone rings, and she jumps at the noise. She stares at him – that crooked half-smile, hair unkempt, shirt falling open from her ministrations… Maker, he was _breathtaking_.

“We should… I mean, it could be important,” she says quietly, knowing full well that neither of them cared.

“Yeah,” he agrees. “It could.” Leaning over her with a grin, he yanks out the cord, the phone dying mid-ring.

“Now,” he murmurs, forehead resting against hers, “where were we?”


	12. Outro - They Call Her The Seeker, Redux

You are not entirely sure _how_ you ended up in the back office of the Old Hanged Man, an inn that still stood in the ruins of Old Kirkwall, the bits they never bothered to build on top of - the dilapidated inn that always stocks shit ale and cheap rum – sat opposite a dwarf who looks extremely put out at the interruption to his day as he mutters something about vacation, but there is a strange comfort in the chintz seating and scattered papers, and despite the bounty on your head you feel less nervous than you did half an hour ago.

* * *

 

He leans forward, pouring out two drinks before pushing one across the desk to you.

“I can guess why you're here. Nobody ever comes for me.”

You swallow, an apology on your lips, but he waves you off.

“They call her the Seeker. You’ve heard the rumours, right?”

You nod, because _everyone_ has their story about her. The Seeker, ex-military, black ops, a division that nobody acknowledged - beautiful and terrible and untraceable… and someone had put a target on your head just for her.

You had been betrayed, set up in a vicious murder, and now you were on the run. Your only hope was to find her and reason with her, explain your innocence, but the one brief chance you have of finding her is sat opposite you with a worryingly careful look about him.

“The rumours don’t even begin to touch the truth,” he drawls, swirling his glass and breathing in the smell. “Her rates are borderline blackmail-worthy, only because she’s the perfect contractor. She never misses, she never quits, and never loses. If you’re alive, it’s because she _wants_ you alive.”

You can feel the bile in your stomach roiling. You are fucked. Utterly fucked. You have no money, no leverage and no proof of your innocence, and on top of everything else the perfect assassin is toying with your life. _Fuck_.

And then the dwarf smiles wryly, leaning forward.

“One other thing I should mention… if you’re innocent? She’s got your back. No amount of money could break her moral code. Lucky for you, right?”

You stare at him, slack-jawed.

“What? You _are_ innocent, right?” There is a teasing note to his voice, but the softness in his eyes betrays him. Somehow, against all odds, he believes you.

“You had better not be wrong, Varric,” says a voice behind you, a voice you have never heard before but instantly know its owner. His eyes flicker up to meet hers, smile softening at the edges.

“When am I _ever_ wrong, Seeker?”

She does not grace him with a response, instead coming into view from behind you. “Someone wants you dead,” she says, leaning against the desk and looking at you with a piercing stare before offering her own smirk. Somehow, despite the edges she presents in her appearance, you feel a lot better for the smile. 

“Let us see what we can do about fixing that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's all she wrote.
> 
> Huge thanks to everyone who's read long, liked and commented - I really do appreciate each and every one of you. I'd like to come back to this universe in the future, so we'll see what other stories there are to tell.


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